Mayonnaise and Goldfish: The Life of an Arabian Horse Breeder

( for this same story with pictures, see: http://www.thelifeofanaverageperson.com/ )

Names like Lake Pleasant and Happy Valley seem decidedly at odds with the surrounding barren and hostile landscape. Quail dart across the desert road trailed by babies the size of my thumb. Some of the bigger dust devils manage to airlift a few tumbleweeds before swirling into non-existence in the intense heat.

At first glance, this stretch of the Carefree Highway in Arizona looks like all the rest: sand, saguaro cactus, mesquite trees, rocks and ... more sand. But, stopping to take a deeper look revealed a hidden treasure within the Sonoran Desert, one I hadn’t expect to find here, and that was the mysterious world of the Arabian horse.

A left turn off the Carefree highway revealed a white adobe house perched on the desert’s edge, the front yard filled with rocks, purple sage, and a variety of cacti. The matching wall surrounding the land behind it permitted only the top of a barn to be seen. A particularly large lizard perched on the sign simply stating, “Binx Arabians”.

“No, not Jar-Jar Binx.” The owner laughed, referencing Star Wars, “Binx stands for Binky’s Arabians.”

Rae “Binky” Weaver, a delicate woman in her fifties, is not someone you would imagine handling 800 lb horses on a daily basis. The nickname Binky stems from a long family tradition of fondly renaming its members to commemorate events or changing roles. These names stick. Binky has been living with hers since birth; a gift bestowed by her grandfather, “Pappy”, after a particularly colicky episode was quelled by a pacifier sold under the name of “Binky”.

“I fell in love with Arabians as a kid.” She explains, taking me through her house to the enclosed complex in the back, “We lived next to Kellogg’s farm in California.”

Binky recounted history I must have heard before, and while you might hear of General Patton rescuing the Polish Arabians in WWII and starting the “Calvary Breeding” program with Kellogg, the cereal maker, you rarely hear about the ripples these events have long after the news flash is gone. Every Sunday, a young girl and her grandfather Pappy made the trip to admire these animals, a ritual that shaped Binky’s entire life, instilling a passion for the breed that still makes her entire face glow.

Pappy bought her a horse, saddle, and all the trimmings including a ½ ton of hay. The price tag for the lot: $80.00.

“It was a horrible horse.” Binky smiled, shaking her head. With difficulty, she recalled the name, Copper, and even then wasn’t confident. But, she had no problem remembering every minute detail about its foal, “Boogaloo Baby” and his illustrious vaulting career in the Olympics. Her grandfather, dying of cancer, had somehow convinced the Kellogg farm to breed her old nag to one of its stallions, Zadir. “Pappy sat in his lawn chair every evening, waiting for that foal.” Binky’s voice softened, “He died two days after it was born.”

It was the beginning of her life with Arabians. The years moved Binky through many states, but there was rarely a time she wasn’t involved in the Arabian community. She introduced me to her mares. The first one was Melania IA, a black bay, who looks just like her grandsire, the well known Magic Dream. “This one is Melly, she descends from one of my own horses, years ago, named Bold Darling.”

Binky has only had Melly a week and the neighboring mare, DSB Justa Princess, is jealous of the newcomer. Princess leans into the adjoining pen drinking only from her rival’s water and inserts her head between me and Melly at every opportunity.

There are other mares, including two daughters of Marwan al Shaqab, and an adorable foal named Fancy, but it is Felicity L R, a granddaughter of Padron’s Psyche (who recently sold for $20 million at the ripe age of 24) that caught my attention.

Felicity stood proud, basking in the attention, a young beautiful brown chestnut, with bumps under her jaw indicating molars were arriving. She thrust her soft nose into my face, in what Binky explained was a horse greeting. Holding still, I followed Binky’s instructions and let her sniff my breath, relieved when she turned away. I took a step forward, preparing to move on, when she surprised me by leaning over my shoulder and plunging her nose down my shirt.
“Felicity is our pickpocket.” Binky laughed, “She steals eyeglasses and car keys.” Upon securing them, she gleefully gallops in her pen, enjoying the chase before exchanging them for a good back rub. She also plays with balls, but her favorite toy is an empty milk carton. Holding it with her lips, she’ll drag it across the fence, enjoying the whack-whack-whack as the plastic hits metal bars.

I try to move on, but Felicity huffs and whinnies, nodding her head up and down when I look at her. Unable to resist the big brown eyes, I found myself leaning through the fence and scratching her neck. She snuffled in my ear, and as I hit a particular spot, nibbled my shoulder with her lips.
“They say 'I’ll scratch your back if you scratch mine.’ comes from communal horse grooming.” Binky told me, grabbing a broom to sweep the rocks and dust from Felicity’s hay rack. Felicity snorted and intercepted the broom, maneuvering until Binky was scratching her back with it instead.

I’m used to horses displaying interest in me only for carrots, an interest microscopically short lived when the treat is not produced forthwith, but these horses were different. They craved human interaction. They were just like big dogs.

“When Arabians are born, they are held first by humans and then given to the mother.” Binky explained, “They were bred for companionship, they lived in the desert in the tents, slept in them, had their babies in them, right next to their humans.”

I’ve always heard that Arabians were bred for the desert, but I’ve always been skeptical. Relationships aside, what horse would actually enjoy the heat and dust? These things had hair and lots of it. Yet, each of the mares, including the foal, was voluntarily standing in the sun, ignoring the shade of the shelters just a few feet away.

A casual glance into the water troughs revealed several large gold fish and I watched, horrified, as Felicity dipped her nose for a drink.

Binky found my ignorance amusing, “Those fish live in there for years. They keep the tank clean.” Most of her horses have the new version of the horse water fountain, but after chewing hers, Felicity is relegated to the tank and fish. I couldn’t help but think she planned it that way; they were very pretty and fun to watch.

The barn stood in the center of the property, amazingly cool, the heavy insulation providing ample protection from the hot desert sun. Around the perimeter, mushrooms pushed up through the sand, evidence of recent rain, and particularly bold rabbits snack on alfalfa under the horse’s feet.

“A few months ago, a rabbit came here and had a couple of babies, all pink and ugly, no hair.” Binky pointed to the neatly stacked alfalfa in the barn, “The mother just looked at me; she didn’t think it was a problem.” The big, burly men that deliver her hay carefully surrounded the young family with a few bales, creating an igloo fortress. The rabbits stayed almost a month, until they all hopped off. Binky shook her head, “Crazy rabbits.”

It is a complex combination of bloodlines, what horse is bred to who. These breeders generally know what the foal would look like before they even start the process. They speak their own language of gaskins, stifles and croups, describing horses with such language as: “the horse has a star strip, snip and lower lip with a right hind coronet”, translating into the horse has white on the forehead, down it to the lip and a white smidgeon on the back leg. The lingo was too much and my eyes glazed over.

The next morning was cool, Felicity was cantering in the arena. When she noticed our arrival, she altered her course to prance back and forth in front of the camera.
“She thinks she is at a show.” Binky shook her head at Felicity’s antics. “She poses after her bath, ready for pictures.”

After a few minutes, Felicity is given a shower and Binky asks me if I know what breeders rub on Arabian’s to make them shine for the show. “Mayonnaise.” She grins, “Huge barrels of the stuff. It does wonders.”

That afternoon, coming back from the grocery store, Binky notices Felicity down in her pen. The response is immediate. Before the groceries are even put away, she is out in the sun, next to the mare. Finally responding to Binky’s insistent orders, Felicity staggered to her feet. It was an obvious effort. Binky’s concern grows. As she readies a syringe of pain killer, she calls the vet, fearing colic.

“We lost a mare to colic just a few months ago.” Binky is clearly worried, “That, or she might be slipping the foal.”

Faster than the average 911 response, the vet is there. He listens to Felicity’s bowels, inspects the pen for her latest droppings. Taking no chances, he grabs a bucket and a hose from his truck. Felicity doesn’t care for plastic tubing being shoved down her nose, but the painkiller is already taking affect, and resistance was short lived as the vet gave her oil, electrolytes and more painkillers.

“If she’s in bad shape, those drugs will have no effect on her.” The vet tells Binky. But, before he could even make it back to his truck, Felicity wobbled toward her hay rack.
Everyone visibly relaxed.

“That horse is the biggest wuss.” The vet growls fondly, “Probably just a slight stomach ache.”
“She’s stoned.” Binky grins in relief.

Felicity bounces back strong and by the next morning, it was as if nothing had happened. “Except she is spoiled now…” Binky smiles, “Someone has been checking on her every hour, now she expects constant attention.”

It is a pleasant evening; bats are migrating through the area now, sipping the nectar of the saguaro cactus. In the distance, you can see the Four Peaks rising in the distance, 100 miles away. It is a peaceful place.

I walk over to Felicity one last time; she places her nostrils next to mine for almost a minute, this time, I fondly sniff her hay scented breath and then she gently lips my cheek twice as if she knows I was saying goodbye. I’ll miss this place and that unique horse scent that I sometimes wish could be bottled, a combination of leather and good old-fashioned horse.

The horses here are big business, even the local Mexican restaurant, El Encanto Dos, caters to these creatures, alongside the parking lot is a corral and hitching posts, sights rarely seen in today’s world. Nearby, the Scottsdale show attracts buyers and their private jets from around the world. Sheiks, princesses and celebrities snap cell phone pictures of these magnificent beasts, shoulder to shoulder with horse breeders and those who simply admire the breed.

The full-blooded sister’s of Binky’s mares, bred to the same sires as hers, have produced foals ranging from 200K-500K. But, for Binky, it is not prestige or the Holy Grail of payoffs that keeps her in this business; it is what was born on those Sunday visits to the Kellogg farm with Pappy, the love of Arabian horses.